Translating Myself

It took me years to realize I wasn’t late to my emotions— they were just taking the scenic route. Grief would arrive days after the funeral. Joy would register as stillness. And anger? It often translated as silence, which meant no one noticed it was there.

For most of my life, I thought this meant I was behind. That I was slow to feel. That maybe I wasn’t built for the same tempo as everyone else.

Now I know it wasn’t slowness. It was processing. It was filtering. It was being on the spectrum, masked as composure.

When I was diagnosed with ASD-1, it didn’t feel like an answer. It felt like someone finally turned the light on in a room I had already been living in, a room I had already decorated and furnished by instinct.

There were things I already knew: that time sometimes moves without me. That a full day can pass and I won’t realize I haven’t eaten until the sun disappears. That I’ve lived entire seasons watching myself perform myself.

Masking wasn’t something I consciously learned. It was something I refined. A lifelong talent for observation, collecting cues like ingredients, and turning them into something palatable. I learned when to laugh. How to make eye contact just long enough to be present but not long enough to drown. I learned how to make my idiosyncrasies look like charm. Like I’m “quirky” instead of quiet. “Focused” instead of dissociating. Only a few people have ever known me unmasked. Not because I was hiding, but because I was finally safe enough not to.

My best friend once told me, “I can’t always read your face, but your toes give everything away.” That’s the kind of knowing I dream of—the kind that doesn’t require translation.

Dating has always been complicated. I’ve been told I’m too much and not enough in the same conversation. Too intense. Too quiet. Too analytical. Too distant. When in reality, I was feeling everything but couldn’t find the right shape to put it in.

Autism is rarely spoken about with grace. It’s misunderstood as selfishness, or emotional coldness. But I’ve spent my whole life trying to understand other people just so I could be understood. I’ve studied social cues like some people study religion and still, I’ve left rooms feeling like I prayed wrong.

But the truth is: I feel everything. Sometimes too much. Sometimes all at once. And it’s not that I can’t express it. It’s that by the time I do, the moment has often passed, and some people have already made up their minds.

And yet, I don’t feel sorry for myself. I feel grateful that my brain is a museum and a laboratory and a film set and a spaceship all at once.

I’ve never been bored. I dream in color. I build things alone that most people need a team to imagine.

And when I love, it’s not performative. It’s not for show. It’s something like architecture. Something I study. Something I stay with.

Maybe I don’t say “I miss you” on cue. Maybe I don’t cry when expected. But if I offer you a glass of water without being asked, it means I noticed. It means I care. It means I understand. More than I can explain.

And someday, maybe I’ll even learn how to explain.